


Empire of Dirt

by Satan In Purple (purple_satan)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Future Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Only slightly shippy because its Jack Harkness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-26
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-09-26 23:34:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9930431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purple_satan/pseuds/Satan%20In%20Purple
Summary: She has her mother's eyes.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I actually never read/saw anything past the four series on TV. So anything referring to what happened to characters was either artistic license or wikipedia. I heard there’s rumors Torchwood will be back. That would be nice. Until further notice I HC Jack would track down Anwen once she was older, despite Gwen and Rhys' obvious wishes to keep her away from Torchwood and Jack. I am maybe a monster.
> 
> The middle name Siân is a nod to the derivative of Ianto, Ifan. I couldn’t resist digging that knife just a bit deeper.

 

 

The first thing he notices is her eyes.

She has her mother’s eyes. Wide and green, shining bright with unshed tears as she looking over the cliff at the coast of Bunkers Hill. The spray of white lilies and baby's breath in her hand slips from her grasp, tumbling to the ground. Tiny white petals scatter, picked up in the salty seaside breeze as he takes in her profile. The crease of her brow. Her pouty pink lips, snub nose. Wind whips her light brown hair across her face as she tucks the strands back behind her ear with tiny fingers and in this moment, this pure _undefinable_ moment, she looks strikingly like her mother.

He honestly expected nothing less. She’s only a few years shy of the age when he first met her mother as a police constable in Cardiff and has clearly grown into her own woman. Easily recognizable not just by her looks, he was able to track her reputation as a tenacious investigator on paper from a distance.

She steps neither forwards nor back when she sees him, feet rooted to the spot. Proud and defiant, the backdrop of Welsh coastline behind her. A Cooper through and through, the maternal line proud and strong. He can barely see Rhys, only Gwen when he looks at her and— _oh, how he misses Gwen._

Of course, he misses them all, every single one of his team. He always knew he’d _eventually_ outlive them, but he’s laid to rest so many friends and loves far earlier than he ever hoped for them. First Suzie, then Toshiko and Owen, none of whom ever got a proper burial. Then Ianto, his beloved Ianto. The final, stinging blow to the remnants of Torchwood Three being Rhys and Gwen not getting long and healthy lives, leaving him the only surviving member.

Because that’s what Jack does.

He _survives._

“DI Anwen Siân Williams,” he says, only slightly stumbling over the pronunciation of her name after being gone from Cardiff, from Wales— from _them,_ for so long. Bending to retrieve the white flowers from the ground he flashes her his most charming grin, the one that crinkles the corners of his impossibly blue eyes. He offers the flowers back with an exaggerated flourish.

“Blue coat. Terrible flirt. American.” Anwen regards him with an almost smile, a quirk of her pink lips. “Was wondering when I’d meet you properly, Jack Harkness.”

“I don’t even get to introduce myself? That's the best part.”

“No,” she replies, snatching up the flowers but still giving him that mysterious half-smile. “Mum eventually stopped going on about Jack- _bloody_ -Harkness all the time, but when Dad wasn’t around she’d still tell me the stories. About you, about aliens. About Torchwood.”

“I know who you are,” she says, an accusation.

“She shouldn’t have.”

“I bloody well know _now_. Made children’s books rubbish, that did.”

They both chuckle for a moment, but the moment ends abruptly. Grin falling on her face, Anwen turns back to the coast again. She kicks a well-worn boot into the loamy soil and hides further into her jacket. Brown leather, the battered surface telling its own tales he wants to know, wants her to tell him. He wants to know everything about her. Wants to thread his fingers through her goldspun hair, press his fingers to her pulse and feel how warm and _alive_ she is.

He’s always wanted too much.

“You’re late,” she finally says, after more quiet moments have passed. He tries not to itch in the stilted silences. He has all the time in the galaxy to hear her talk. “The funeral was a year past. Lorry crash of all things. After all they saw, all they did. A lorry crash.”

He doesn’t correct her, doesn’t tell her he was there at the procession. That he was in the back hiding from sight as her parents were lowered into the ground. That he saw her stand there next to Andy and her frail grandmother, wheelchair pushed by a stern faced caretaker. Watched the dirt cover her parent’s caskets, layer after layer at a time. Stood vigil over the burial plot long after everyone had dispersed, reading the cards and relighting the candles. Smelled the flowers left by mourners and talked to Gwen as though she could hear him even though he knew she was in the darkness he’s so desperate to avoid, even now.

“Well, you traveled all this way, _Mister America_. May as well take a walk, unless you’d rather dodge off to a pub.”

Anwen bumps her shoulder against his in a surprisingly familiar gesture and he remembers promises made and broken years past. Thinks of a daughter of his own who still refuses to speak to him. Another broken promise and another family broken in his wake. Thinks of her mother who warned him to stay away.

“What do you want?”

“I could murder a pint of bitter myself,” she replies. “It’s up a bit. Not a bad walk with good company.”

“Lead the way,” he tells her, sidestepping and doing a small bow. His hand briefly brushes across her lower back, and he feels her shiver at the contact before they fall in step together.

The walk is a quiet one, silent save for the cawing of gulls and the wind. They follow along the shore until it forks to a gravel road, buildings dotting the green hills in the distance. Everything about the place is beautiful, like a well-kept and treasured secret. He’s seen all sorts of sprawling cities, capitols, metropoles. Neon lights and signs. Wonders of the galaxy like the frozen waves of Woman Wept. Skies and sceneries of every hue, but the coasts of Wales still never cease to impress him with their vibrant greens and blues. He’s finally come around to appreciating the time he has to take these moments in an savor them. The slow path the Doctor left him on is all he has now.

It’s exactly these moments, doing what he can to preserve this world he lives in now, that drives him.

The realization that he’s lonely is not a new one, nor a fleeting one. Watching the people he loves age around him, wither and die, never gets easier. And gazing at the stars until technology catches up and he can finally reach them again, never loses its importance. A question he’s been holding in longer than he realized is on the tip of his tongue, unsaid.

“Want to go traveling, Anwen?”

It’s a selfish request, one that ensures history repeats itself over and over and over. But maybe not this time. Hope is such a human thing and he needs to hold on to anything that keeps his humanity intact.

She scoffs, kicking at the gravel crunching under their feet. “Mum always warned me about swanning off with handsome strangers— _especially you._ ”

“Is that a yes? Tell me that’s a yes.”

Her eyes snap to his suddenly, and she’s close enough he can count the freckles on the bridge of her nose as she furrows her brow, staring at the hand he’s holding out for her to take. He could lean in now and kiss her and he’s almost certain she’d let him. That it’d take little effort convincing her to take him home and they’d fall into her queen-sized bed with its pastel sheets and knit quilt.

But he doesn’t want that.

He wants more than anything he can give her in just one night. With her mother and Rhys gone, he’s one of the only people left standing to watch over her, be there for her. He’s not so entrenched in 21st century morals to not want to sleep with her, but the desire to protect her far outweighs, even if it means protecting her from himself. And maybe that’s what Gwen meant all along, tried to save her from.

_"Yes.”_

Her hand is small and warm, skin oh-so soft. Her fingers fit perfectly between his larger ones and he realizes that maybe _—just maybe—_ this isn’t the end, but the beginning of a new story for them both.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on tumblr @ [purple-satan-fic](http://purple-satan-fic.tumblr.com/)!


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